MADISON

The town looked like it had been plucked straight from a witch's journal and preserved in amber. Cobblestone streets stretched in winding paths, uneven and glistening with the mist that hadn't fully lifted since sundown. Iron lampposts stood like sentinels at every corner, casting long, crooked shadows.

Weathered statues dotted the sidewalks—women in long gowns, men in old militia garb—all staring off into some forgotten time. Their faces were worn down by rain, wind, and something else... like they'd seen too much.

The shops lining the main street looked like old souls trapped in wood and glass. Faded wooden signs with names like Wick & Bone, The Cauldron Café, and Ashes & Antiques swung in the soft breeze. Too many candles burned in every window, their flickering flames casting distorted silhouettes against the foggy panes—witchy, like whispers out of reach.

It was eerie. And kind of... beautiful. In the same way, cemeteries are stunning when the leaves are falling and the world feels like it's holding its breath.

Garrison turned into the cracked parking lot behind Salem's Groceries, a boxy brick building that had seen better centuries. A buzzing neon sign blinked in and out of existence above the entrance, barely holding on to life.

We parked near the back, in a crooked spot beneath a flickering security light. The air smelled like wet pavement and something metallic. The kind of place that made you double-check your locks.

Garrison killed the engine.

"You coming in," he asked, giving me a side glance, "or are you gonna sulk in the car like a tragic Netflix character with a secret?"

I scowled, yanking my hoodie over my head a little tighter. "Bathroom," I muttered, already pushing the door open.

The cold night slapped me in the face. I pulled my backpack over one shoulder and slammed the door behind me.

✽✽✽

Thirty minutes later, I was returning from the grimiest bathroom I'd seen since a gas station in Ohio. The mirror was cracked. The soap dispenser was broken. And of course—no paper towels. Not even the sad, brown kind.

So I wiped my damp hands on my jeans and trudged past the freezer aisle, navigating through towers of soda boxes and a suspicious puddle by the meat section.

And that's when it happened.

He didn't just walk into the aisle—he appeared like something out of a nightmare or a messed-up dream. One second, the space was empty. The next, he was there.

Broad shoulders. Black hoodie. Dark jeans. Pale skin that looked like moonlight trapped under glass. Hair—messy, dark, like he hadn't bothered with a mirror. And those eyes...

God, those eyes.

Dark and wild, he looked like something had lived behind them—something ancient. He looked about my age, maybe a little older, but nothing about how he carried himself was teenage.

He wasn't looking. Or maybe he was lost in thought. But whatever it was, he collided with me so hard I stumbled back a step.

"Watch it!" I snapped, the words automatic.

Then I saw his face.

And forgot how to breathe.

His eyes met mine—fast, sharp, like he'd just woken up. He froze. His chest rose like he'd inhaled for the first time in hours.

There was silence. Not awkward silence—charged silence. Like the air between us had thickened into something electric and unstable.

He stared at me like he wasn't seeing my face, but something underneath it, like he was listening—not to my words, but to something inside me. A heartbeat. A signal. A warning.

His gaze dipped. My breath hitched.

Then he looked back up, jaw tightening like he was holding something back.

"Sorry," he muttered, voice rough and husky, like it didn't get much use.

He didn't move.

Neither did I.

There was something wrong with the air. Too cold. Too still. Like the entire store was watching us.

Then—

"I'll see you around," he said.

He turned and walked off like that, fading down the aisle like a shadow sliding back into the wall.

I stood there, heart hammering like it was trying to tell me something I wasn't ready to hear.

"Making friends already?" Garrison's voice came from behind me, breaking the spell. I turned to find him standing with a half-full cart and an eyebrow raised.

I blinked, the daze lifting like fog. "Not sure that counts."

Garrison smirked, tossing a frozen pizza into the cart. "You didn't miss much. Some guy at the entrance was ranting about vampires."

I snorted. "Cool. Can't wait to run into that guy."

But as we turned down the next aisle, I couldn't help glancing over my shoulder, toward the shadows.

Toward him.

✽✽✽

We stood in line under the sickly hum of fluorescent lights. The air smelled like bleach and raw meat—an odd mix that clung to the back of my throat. Garrison's cart was loaded with essentials: frozen pizza, cheap cereal, and enough instant ramen to survive the apocalypse.

The cashier looked about my age, maybe a year older. His skin was smooth and sun-warmed, his eyes a deep amber brown that didn't blink enough. Dark and wild curls tumbled over his forehead, slick and shiny like he used too much product or none at all. He didn't smile. He didn't speak at first. He just stared right at me.

His eyes trailed from my face to my hands, then back up again like he was trying to memorize something. Not flirtatious. Not harmless. Curious. Intense.

Garrison noticed before I did.

The first item beeped through the scanner. Then the second. Still staring.

"Paper or plastic?" the cashier asked, his voice low and smooth, like he didn't ask that question twenty times a day.

I felt Garrison shift beside me.

"Plastic," I said fast, cutting him off before he could say something dumb or dangerous. My sleeves crept down over my hands. I tugged them lower, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt—even in a hoodie.

As Garrison pulled out his wallet, the boy licked his lips. "You're new to Salem?"

His words slithered into the space between us.

I hesitated. "Yeah."

His gaze didn't move. Neither did mine.

Then I felt it—him. That same strange pulse I'd felt earlier in the meat section, like a shift in the air. Something colder. More alert.

I turned my head, and there he was.

Mark.

He stood at a nearby checkout, his items forgotten, as his eyes locked onto me again. He was not blinking, smiling, hiding, just watching, studying the cashier and me.

Something about the way he stared wasn't jealousy. It was territorial, primal.

His jaw was tight. His hands hung loose at his sides like they could turn violent at any second.

I looked back at the cashier. He seemed oblivious, but his eyes flicked to Garrison now, quick, nervous.

The cashier scanned the last item and dropped it into a bag. "Six dollars and eleven cents."

Garrison handed him two twenties, as if he were paying for more than groceries. The cashier counted the change into his hand with shaky fingers.

"Enjoy," he muttered, then handed the plastic bags to me—but he didn't let go right away. His fingers brushed mine, just barely. Deliberate.

I pulled away.

We turned and walked out without another word.

But as we left, I could feel two sets of eyes on my back.

One was hot and lingering.

The other?

Cold and possessive.

And I had no idea which one scared me more.

Five minutes later, the night had settled like a second skin—quiet, too quiet, as if the town itself was holding its breath.

Garrison shoved the key into the ignition and twisted it. The engine rumbled to life, headlights slicing through the fog that clung low to the pavement like ghost smoke.

"Remind me again why we parked in the back?" I muttered, glancing out the window—the grocery bags crinkled at my feet, the scent of cold bacon and plastic sharp.

"I like avoiding people," he said.

And then—

CRACK.

Garrison barely backed out two feet before the car jolted with a loud thud—the sick, awful sound of something solid hitting metal. His foot slammed the brake. My breath caught in my throat.

"Shit!" Garrison cursed, throwing it into park. He shoved the door open and bolted out.

I wasn't far behind.

A figure lay on the asphalt behind the car, crumpled, motionless at first, then slowly shifting. His breath came out in pained rasps, hands pressed to his side.

The headlights illuminated him fully.

It was him.

Mark.

The same boy from the meat aisle—the haunted eyes and the impossible stillness.

"Oh my god," I breathed.

"What the hell were you doing behind my car?" Garrison barked, hovering over him. He crouched down fast, trying to assess the damage. "Are you hurt? Do I need to call an ambulance?"

Mark winced, teeth clenched as he pushed himself up on one elbow. His other arm curled protectively over his ribs.

"I'm fine," he said, strained but strangely calm. "Seriously... I've been hit harder."

I hovered nearby, torn between panic and something else I didn't want to name. Mark looked like he should be in shock, but he wasn't—no shaking hands. No tears. Just that quiet, unreadable stillness again.

His dark eyes flicked up to mine. They locked—and my stomach twisted like something ancient and electric had clicked into place.

He blinked hard and shook his head like he felt it too.

"Let me get my insurance card," Garrison said, reaching for his wallet.

Mark held up a hand, stopping him. "It's okay. Nothing's broken. I'll walk it off."

"You got hit by a car, dude," I said, incredulous.

He half-smiled through the pain. "Wouldn't be the first time."

That sentence stuck to my ribs like a bruise.

Garrison looked him over one more time, still tense. "You sure?"

Mark nodded, standing slowly. His movements were fluid, controlled—but a little too graceful for someone who'd just taken a bumper to the ribs. His hoodie was torn slightly at the hem, dark fabric sticking to what looked like fresh blood. Just a scrape. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

"I live just down the street," he said.

He turned to leave, then paused.

His eyes met mine again, as if he were reading something inside me that he was unsure how to process.

That stare...

It wasn't flirtatious. It wasn't friendly.

It was...hungry. Wary. Familiar in a way that shouldn't have made sense.

I couldn't look away.

Neither could he.

Finally, Mark exhaled like it hurt to let go, and turned. He limped into the fog, vanishing into the dark like he belonged there.

Garrison and I stood in silence for a beat.

"This town is weird," I muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

He climbed back into the driver's seat, still watching where Mark had disappeared.

"You think?" he said, and started the engine again.

The car rolled forward this time—no sudden stops, just the quiet hum of tires on cracked pavement and the weight of unanswered questions pressing in from all sides.

✽✽✽

Back at the house, I chugged orange juice straight from the carton while Garrison organized groceries.

"You're just like Dad," he muttered.

"Better believe it." I popped a pretzel in my mouth.

He gestured at the carton. "You know I'm drinking that tomorrow, right?"

"Only if I don't finish it first."

He shook his head. "We've got a budget now. Just because Mom and Dad left us with a small fortune doesn't mean we act like spoiled brats."

"I'm not spoiled," I said, taking another swig. "I'm emotionally wounded. Different."

He smirked. "You want allowance or not?"

I straightened up. "Wait—are you serious?"

"We'll figure something out," he said, leaning back against the island.

"I like this," I told him. "We're figuring it out. Together."

He softened. "They'd be proud."

"Damn right they would."

"But if you don't get some sleep, you'll look like a corpse tomorrow. Salem High will be brutal enough without you showing up like a sleep-deprived ghoul."

I groaned, dragging my feet toward the stairs like a zombie. "Ughhhh. Brains."

He laughed. "Goodnight, Mads."

"Night, Garr," I called, pausing halfway up. "If I die mysteriously, avenge me."

"No promises."